


Really Done

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You said you’d be gentle!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Really Done

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Really Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/332151) by [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru), [Miss_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Octopus/pseuds/Miss_Octopus)



John’s sweat-slick hands could hardly keep ahold of Sherlock’s hips. His mouth was dry from panting, his legs were cramping, and he was just generally running out of steam. He wanted to stop for just fifteen seconds, unbend his knees, wipe his hands on the sheets so he could keep a grip on Sherlock. But Sherlock, on his back, legs in the air, was screaming filth and directions at him, so John just repeated an inner mantra: _He’s got to finish any second now, he’s got to..._

Sometimes it seemed that Sherlock was trying to gain leverage, but then as soon as he did, a fresh wave of pleasure overtook him and he began flailing again. He had been bellowing and thrashing in ecstasy for a good five minutes now, to the point that John would not be sure that Sherlock was coming until he actually saw him ejaculate. Weary and blinking away the perspiration stinging his eyes, he watched Sherlock pulling frantically at himself and waited for the culmination.

“Sherlock--”

“Harder! I’m so close. Harder! Oh, this is it, this is it _thisisit_ \--”

With his blurring, wrenching fist, Sherlock coaxed one clear, powerful jet from his twitching cock, then a second little pulse. He hadn’t eaten in days -- when he was eating better, he produced more.

Now John could finally let go himself, but by then he was too weary and sore to come hard. A final, half-decent wave of pleasure rumbled through him, and then his quadriceps gave out. He had to think fast and roll to one side to keep from crushing Sherlock.

John was boneless, but the fucking had not worked all of the evening’s adrenalin out of his system; his mind was still racing. He felt safe lying there for a few minutes without worrying about falling asleep. He would have to get up in a minute.

Sherlock’s chest continued to heave for minutes more, his sweaty skin shimmering under the lamp-light. He didn’t seem to notice that John was not quite basking in the same afterglow. “Oh, I love it,” he said. “I love having sex with you right after I’ve solved a case! I’m brilliant, you’re brilliant, your cock inside me is brilliant.” He kicked his legs in the air, positively giddy. There would be plenty of time later for the boredom and the sulking and the dissonant sawing away at the violin.

John said, “Are you ready to get in the shower?”

“I’ll have one later.”

“Sherlock, you are _filthy_.”

“I don’t want to move. Just bring a flannel.”

John foresaw the next half-hour: he would get up and have a nice long shower to wash away the case and the sex, then return to sweat-soaked sheets, because Sherlock wouldn’t move for him to change them; then Sherlock would act like his twenty minutes away had been twenty years, and want a smothering cuddle, and smear his sweaty filthiness all over John, obliterating any feeling of cleanliness John might have been able to achieve.

“Sherlock, so help me I will drag you right out of this bed and into the tub.”

“I’d like to see you try that just now. You are a wreck. Just bring a flannel.”

“Clean your own bloody self for once.”

“You’re getting up anyway. It’s not like it’s any trouble.”

“How do you know I’m getting up?”

“The way you’re lying on your side. You’re trying to keep the least possible pressure on your bladder. You’re dying for a piss.”

“...I’ll get up in a minute.” 

*****

In the bathroom, John took a flannel from the stack in the cabinet, soaked it under the hot tap, and used it to wash his genitals. He gave it a good rinse, then squeezed it out and took it with him back to the bedroom. The room smelled exactly as one would expect it to: like two people had been having a prolonged, sweaty fuck in it. Sherlock had not moved. The glow had faded from him as his perspiration had dried. John kneeled between Sherlock’s splayed legs without ceremony and wiped up the streak and little pool of come on his belly, then unfolded and refolded the flannel. “Turn over,” he sighed.

John expected that Sherlock would refuse out of laziness, but in fact he rolled onto his stomach obediently. John didn’t realise that it was because Sherlock was aware that of all the things that turned John on, nothing got to him quite like seeing Sherlock turn over and reveal his backside, which one could not be blamed for assuming was sculpted by the gods.

As was his habit, John gently parted Sherlock’s buttocks to clean between them and check for injury. Everything down there was still pink and wet and shiny, and in the middle of it, a raw, red pucker, relaxed considerably by John’s efforts.

As John exposed it to the air and his careful gaze, it flexed, probably in anticipation of the cool press of the flannel. Amidst the clear smears of lube, a dollop of pearly fluid welled up in that pucker, but remained there; not enough had gathered to make it trickle down.

Without taking his eyes off Sherlock’s arse, John dropped the flannel on the floor. His hand drifted toward that well-fucked opening, and his fingers traced the dribble of come that emerged from it.

“John, is something wrong?”

“No. Everything’s fine. I just...” Hardly knowing what he was doing, John plunged two fingers inside Sherlock, working them in and out hard and fast, feeling the squish inside. His stomach was dropping, watching himself play in his own come.

“Oh god John, what are you _thinking_?”

“I don’t know, I have to fuck you again, right now. Just hold still.” He was mesmerised by his fingers disappearing inside Sherlock, more so than he’d ever been when preparing him. John wondered if he could fuck Sherlock again without applying any more lube. It looked so pliant and moist already. A minute ago his cock had felt as utterly spent as the rest of him but he was sure now that he could get it hard again. He needed to get back in there as soon as possible.

“John, I don’t -- it was good but I’m really done. I’m so sore.”

“I’ll go slow. Just please let me do this. I’ll be gentle.” He continued to finger Sherlock with his dominant hand, and squeezed his cock with the other. It was sore but it stirred and swelled nonetheless, as dutiful as John himself.

It was all he could do to wait until he was fully hard before driving his cock back into Sherlock’s depths. The going was a little rough around Sherlock’s rim, but inside it was fantastically sloppy and wet. John knew a lot of it was lube, but a lot of it was him. He pumped frantically, knowing that even his sturdiest muscles would give out again any second.

Pinned below him, Sherlock struggled, in vain. “You said you’d be gentle!”

“I’ve fucked you harder than this plenty of times and you loved it--”

“ _John!_ ”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, here--” John fumbled for the bottle of lube, pulled nearly out of Sherlock, and pumped a streak along his cock before pushing it back in. “Better?” he asked, as he worked the lube in with his thrusts.

“A little -- I suppose --”

“Please, it feels incredible. Just give me another minute.”

He pressed two fingers down there, where Sherlock was clenching around him, feeling himself going in and out. All he could think of was coming again, not for the sweet release but so he could put even more of his spunk into Sherlock.

Once Sherlock puzzled this out and understood what was going on, he was able to hasten the end. He arched his back and pushed himself lasciviously against John. “Fill me, John,” he moaned. “I’m not full yet.”

John grunted as the delicious ache in his balls shot straight up his spine and he spilled into Sherlock once more. Three shivery aftershocks struck him, then he gave his balls a firm squeeze to make sure he was completely empty. He didn’t want a drop to land outside Sherlock.

He didn’t roll off this time, just stretched out and laid on top of Sherlock, not caring that he was squashing him until Sherlock began to struggle for breath and elbowed John in the ribs. He leapt as if given an electric shock. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Are you alright?” He put his hands all over Sherlock in a way that he hoped was soothing, brushing his hair from his face, stroking lightly down his spine. “I’m so sorry, I was just overcome--”

“I think I’ll have a shower now,” Sherlock announced into the mattress.


End file.
